


Southbound

by Missy



Category: King of the Hill
Genre: Gen, songfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in Arlen, Texas, through the lives of its citizenry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southbound

**Author's Note:**

> A songfic. Lyrics are from the Mary Chapin Carpenter song "I Am a Town", from the album "Come On, Come On", and are in italics.

_ I'm a detour on a ride  
For a phone call and a soda, I'm a blur from the driver's side  
I'm the last gas for an hour if you're going twenty-five  
I am Texaco and tobacco, I am dust you leave behind  
I am a Town _

"Yep."

"...And then the Saucers will come down!"

"Yep."

"Mmm-hmm."

"...And that's how the Martians, by way of the gremlins, will come and take our brains on election night!" He took a swig of his beer and looks around at his bored compatriots.

Finally, Hank sighed deeply and adjusted his glasses. "Yeah, Dale. Sounds like it could happen."

"Mark my words, Hank! Plan ahead, or you'll find yourself face-down, being probed!" Dale defiantly announced. "That's why I bought one of these!" He withdraws from his pocket a slim green tube.

Hank sighed, the sound of a man who's put up with much and suffered a few in his time. "Dale, that's a glow stick. They were giving them out at the game last night..."

Hank prepared himself to launch into a very long explanation as to why a glow wand couldn't successfully protect the entire Gribble clan against invading Martians, and thus spare the guys from having to listen to his friend's very detailed defense plan again. That was when a small glowing object flipped, end over end, out of a passenger's side window. It's short trajectory halted when the object skittered to a stop against his foot.

The four men gasped, as though someone had lit a flag on fire in front of them. Hank picked up the empty Alamo can and, brandishing it, stepped into the street.

"Litterbugs!" he shouted, waving his arm. Why wasn't anyone taking down the plate number?

Only later would he realize how much he sounded like an old man, and shudder.

But not like his father. Not yet. Thank God.

***

_I am peaches in September, and corn from a roadside stall  
I'm the language of the natives, I'm a cadence and a drawl _

"Su Es Cantina." The students stared blankly at their substitute teacher "Oh, you poor children; didn't Miss McGreevy teach you the difference between ordering in a restaurant and ASKING to go to a restaurant?" She shook her head. "No, I thought not." She reached into her tote bag and fished out a pile of mimeographed worksheets. "Please pass these back." She took her place behind the desk, presiding over the room as though it were her very own.

Inspiration hit her; she grabbed a sticky note and scribbled out a musing: "If it takes a rich man to own a room...why do people say that I own one whenever I step into it?"

She chuckled at her own handiwork. "Oh, Peggy." Unaware of her student's staring. If she were, she would think they observed her with awe.

She didn't realize that she had just passed out work sheets meant for seventh graders to a high school honors Spanish class.

***

_I'm the pines behind the graveyard,  
and the cool beneath their shade,  
where the boys have left their beer cans  
I am weeds between the graves._

Well, there was simply too much to do, wasn't there? She had to get to the studio by five, and in between she had to stop at the market and pick up dinner.

She loved Dale, but she did not trust him with a stove.

The Mega-Lo Mart always had everything; she never did understand Hank's sighing about how it had driven all of the small businesses out of town. Well, that did sound like a juicy sweeps-week story. Maybe she should pitch it to her boss...maybe they'd let her stretch that meteorology degree.

A fat chance, but one none the less.

From the flat land of the parking lot, Arlen seemed to spread its legs out and bask in the sun. Without high points, she could close her eyes and point and announce with accuracy that she and John Redcorn had been there before. It felt sort of tawdry now, but then it was exciting.

She counted her money and winced when she made impact with a strong, broad chest. It was embaressing that she knew who it was without looking up.

"Excuse me, Shug."

"You are excused." John Redcorn said, getting out of her way.

She didn't have to meet his gaze to know that his expression held desperate need; well, he wanted to break up. The gap had been breached, the spell ended. If she ever had liked him, outside of bed, she certainly didn't feel it anymore.

"Uh, I'll be seeing you." He concluded awkwardly, merging with another line. In her car it occured to her how odd it was, that he could dissapear into a crowd and become one with it.

How deep that was. Maybe there was a copywriter hidden inside of her.

***

_ My porches sag and lean with old black men and children  
Their sleep is filled with dreams, I never can fulfill them  
I am a town. _

He gave his neighbors credit; at least they weren't pigs.

He knew pigs; his college roommates exemplified the word. Conversely, they weren't as strait-laced as his neighbors.

He remembered deciding to leave Laos for America; at first, it was for his own benefit. What he grew to realize was that his greatest hope was to give Connie a fresh start. One she needed more than he in the end, for his little girl was special.

More special than hillbilly backwater town and hillbilly redneck neighbor boy had to offer her.

When he closed his eyes, he pictured a Harvard Graduation. Mihn would be quiet for once, reverent. Maybe that was something to hope for.

On the other side of his house, his American daughter prepared her rebellion; a Rolling Stone hidden in the Motzart Book, Allison Krauss in her ears.

***

_ I am a church beside the highway where the ditches never drain  
I'm a Baptist like my daddy, and Jesus knows my name _

She nibbled at the nail on her middle finger, she'd noticed another mistake on the page.

Panic welled; she tried not to give it voice. Her body quaked and trembled. Why had she decided that taking creative writing might be a good idea?

**Calm down. It isn't like the beauty academy. They're NICE here! **

Her teachers eyes were kind. "Miss Platter, would you like to be the first?"

She couldn't help the strange sound which left her lips; a half-strangled squeal. But she rose to her feet and held the paper out on a shaking arm.

"My Home Town: The Story of a Life Lived In Arlen. By Luanne Platter."

***

_ I am billboards in the fields  
I'm an old truck up on cinder blocks, missing all my wheels  
I am Pabst Blue Ribbon, American, and "Southern Serves the South"  
I am tucked behind the Jaycees sign, on the rural route  
I Am A Town_

He glared maliciously at the street before him. The foot which could almost reach the gas stabbed downward, pushing the car unmercifully toward the Mega-Lo Mart. G.H. was out of diapers, and DeeDee had chosen to keep polishing his boots for the parade. Woman'd probably screw it up anyway.

"Sunday driver!" He bellowed out the window. People didn't know how to use their cars anymore. Back in the fifties, they knew how to operate a vehicle. Of course, they didn't make cars the way they do now, back then.

Just look at the way the bulk of this one caved in. Why, he barely touched the pissant in the other car!

He opened up the door, waddling onto the concrete.

"Ohmigawd, I'm so sorry!"

He squinted up at the blond curls and heavy pancake makeup of the girl who had cracked his bumper. "What kind of accent is that? You a Commie-Nazi?"

Blankly, she continued. "We should switch information." She rummaged through her overflowing purse. "My name's Tam-"

"I'm Cotton Hill." He interrupted. "I killed fiddy men."

***

_I am memory and stillness  
I am lonely in old age  
I am not your destination  
I am clinging to my ways_

From the top of the jungle gym, you could see everything in Arlen. For some, that would be a wondrous feat, but for him, it happens every day.

He tucks a short-pantsed knee behind himself, nibbling at his fruit pie.

He's barely old enough to be considered a teenager, but has memories already to look back on. He remembers with a fondness how he'd told Connie that one day they would leave this town; he would open for her, and together they would play Carnegie Hall.

For a kid from a small town, it seemed an impossible sort of dream. No one in his parent's generation had ever made it North of Heimlich County for anything other than a vacation. They had been born in Texas (except for his dad; he envied him that), lived in Texas, and would probably be buried in Texas. Like Buckley. That wasn't the path that Bobby Hill had in mind.

The idea of death dosen't trouble him. No, death is a long way off. And people like his dad never die, no, they just grow roots like those big trees his Grandma Hill had shown him in California.

He will definitely leave Arlen one day, when the time is right. If his dad doesn't force him to go to Texas State, he'll go somewhere in New York and sneak up to the Catskills. They'll treat him like a prop comedy god. He doesn't see how his dream won't come true, with a plan as flawless at that.

But somehow, he knows, even if he only made it to Dallas, he'll be all right.

_I Am a Town_

Because Arlen is a part of who he is. Leaving something of himself behind only means there's something to return to, one day. If it doesn't work out.

_Southbound._

"Yep."


End file.
